


Distance

by silkinsilence



Series: Moicy Week 2019 [4]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Post-Fall of Overwatch, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:02:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21786421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silkinsilence/pseuds/silkinsilence
Summary: ‍Moira comes home at last, though not of her own volition.‍
Relationships: Moira O'Deorain/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Series: Moicy Week 2019 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1566913
Comments: 5
Kudos: 45





	Distance

**Author's Note:**

> For Moicy Week Day 4: Switzerland/Ireland.

The house hadn’t changed, though it had been a good decade since she’d visited. There was dust everywhere and a persistent smell of decay no matter how long she left the windows open. She hoped the structure had started breaking down in her absence, hoped it would all crash down on her as she slept. It would make a nice, symbolic coffin, and she’d be spared the trouble of doing it herself.

_Why are you still here? Don’t you have family to go home to?_

_No._

_Did they all disown you?_

_No, they died. Like yours. Somehow I never get much sympathy._

_I won’t say I’m sorry, then._

_Thank you for sparing me._

_I’m glad you’re here._

The whiskey she’d bought (duty-free!) at the airport was cheap and frankly vile, but she couldn’t have cared less. She found a glass in the kitchen cabinets and filled it without bothering to even rinse it first.

It occurred to her that the dishwasher could still have dirty plates in it, the remains of her mother’s last few meals preserved for years. She felt ill, but she took a swallow and then another and another. She didn’t want to think about her dead mother or her dead father or her dead commander. She wanted to be drunk (dead) and unable to think about anything at all.

_I’ve been, and it’s lovely. It’s so green._

_Yes, I’ve heard that. Don’t you get tired of people telling you how beautiful it is here?_

_Maybe, but it_ is _beautiful._

_My home isn’t lovely. It’s just where I happened to be born. I never cared for the rain. I like the desert, places where you can see the stars. Other places. Anywhere else._

_I like hearing you talk about it. I like seeing you passionate._

_Oh? Well. Since you abhor my other passions, at least you like that._

Her thumb hovered over the number and then she threw the phone down, and then she picked it up and found the number again and threw her phone down. Angela didn’t want to hear from her. Angela didn’t want anything to do with her. They’d parted on acrimonious terms months ago, largely because of her, and now the explosion that had ruptured their lives and jobs and the whole world wouldn’t change any of that. She could already almost hear Angela angrily demanding if she’d had anything to do with it, if she knew what Gabriel was planning.

But a fight would be better than nothing. A fight would be better than silence. _Anything at all_ would be better than the empty rooms of the house in which she’d grown up.

“I came home to visit,” she said, voice unhinged even in her own ears. She raised her cup in a toast to her parents’ wedding picture, hung on the dining room wall, and then took another gulp. Her throat burned. “You could have waited a little longer.”

_Tell me what it was like for you._

_Well...there were a lot of children like me, without parents, and the system couldn’t keep up. Mostly we wound up in orphanages. It was like being a shadow. I didn’t...I didn’t have a lot of friends. I thought that if I did well in school, if I was perfect, a foster family would want me._

_If you worked hard enough, you would earn love?_

_It’s easy to believe, especially for a child._

_But you know, having a family might not have changed anything. Then you might have worked harder just to make them happy, even if they never were._

There was a picture of her on the wall upstairs. Or, rather, a picture of the girl who had grown into her. That girl was eight years old, unsmiling, her brow even slightly furrowed. Her hair was long then, straight and ginger and falling past her shoulders.

Moira couldn’t remember the exact occasion, but she could imagine her mother imploring her to smile, and the resulting argument.

Maybe back then she’d had lofty dreams and ambitions; she couldn’t really remember. But now her life was in ashes and her future led back where she’d started, and she was still every bit the girl in the photograph, at the whims of others and alone.

Alone.

Alone…

_I’d like to go there with you, someday. You could tell me how it’s not really that green and show me where you grew up._

_No, you wouldn’t. Don’t be stupid. We’d fight on the plane and you’d refuse to go anywhere with me. You still won’t acknowledge me unless we’re alone._

_Moira—_

_No. I’m not indulging your pillow fantasies. Shall I leave now, or shall I wait until morning? We both know you’ll ignore me until the next time you’re_ unsatisfied.

It was dark outside and pounding rain, the wind howling against the house as if it sought to bring it down and make all Moira’s wishes come true.

She retrieved her phone, found the contact, and pushed the button.

It rang and rang and rang while she slumped forward until her cheek was resting on the wood of the table where she’d eaten so many breakfasts. And then, abruptly, there was a recorded voice telling her the number was no longer in service.

She had to laugh then, because what had she expected? Had she expected a hero? There was only her, and the memories, and the weight of this place pressing down on her.

She wondered how much more she had to drink before she went the way of her parents, but the bottle was on the counter and she had so little desire to get up.

She awoke the next morning to one of the worst hangovers she’d ever had, and a house still empty, and no idea of what she was supposed to do next.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments always greatly appreciated!


End file.
